


Drinking Again

by rixie_rhee



Series: In the Mood [2]
Category: Band of Brothers (TV 2001)
Genre: Canon Era, F/M, Love, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27953369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rixie_rhee/pseuds/rixie_rhee
Summary: For the time being, Nix is content on his own with his whiskey warming his belly. His eyes wander over the room, not really looking at anything. When they land on a girl perched at a small, high table near the window, they look no further. Behind the rim of his glass, Nix’s lips curl into an unconscious smile that goes all the way to his eyes.The girl is playing with the stem of her wineglass, amused at whatever her friend is saying. Nix wishes he could have heard her laughter through the ambient noise. She sighs and dabs at her face with her napkin, struggling to get control of herself through the aftershocks of her giggles. It doesn’t work. As soon as she looks at her friend, they both succumb again. One lock of hair falls over her forehead when she hides her eyes behind her hand. Once she finally regains her composure, she tucks the disobedient strands behind her ear. Nix would’ve liked to do that--not that he could have, but the thought is nice. Roses bloom in her cheeks and her lips are stained purple. Not that Nix is paying that much attention, but he is observant, he has to be, that’s his job, isn’t it? So it’s only natural that he would notice details.
Relationships: Lewis Nixon/Original Female Character(s)
Series: In the Mood [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/871698
Kudos: 3





	Drinking Again

Any town flooded with young men is bound to have a number of drinking establishments from which said young men can choose. Aldbourne in particular is no exception to this general rule. A crisp, clear Friday evening finds Nix on his way to the one he haunts when he wants to take his time with his whiskey and cigarettes. He’s glad of his coat; the wind scuttling the leaves along the pavement would be more at home at the end of December than the beginning of November. The pleasant autumn melancholy makes the prospect of a warm, dimly-lit place--and one that serves alcohol, no less--even more appealing than it would be otherwise.

The barkeep could be anywhere between thirty and sixty; he never says much, but the few words he does speak float on a river of sarcasm. He barely looks up when Nix plants himself on a stool at the end of the bar. Nix is the recipient of a glass of whiskey and what might be the faintest ghost of a smile. Not a word is spoken during the exchange.

Nix lights his cigarette and settles in, enjoying solitude in the midst of a crowd. This is a good place to eat and nurse a few drinks, sit and talk if you’re so inclined, and eavesdrop if you’re not. If the goal is to funnel enough alcohol into your bloodstream to make--and maybe forget--a few questionable life decisions, or at least get loud and stagger home, you’d go somewhere else. For the time being, Nix is content on his own with his whiskey warming his belly. His eyes wander over the room, not really looking at anything. When they land on a girl perched at a small, high table near the window, they look no further. Behind the rim of his glass, Nix’s lips curl into an unconscious smile that goes all the way to his eyes.

The girl is playing with the stem of her wineglass, amused at whatever her friend is saying. Nix wishes he could have heard her laughter through the ambient noise. She sighs and dabs at her face with her napkin, struggling to get control of herself through the aftershocks of her giggles. It doesn’t work. As soon as she looks at her friend, they both succumb again. One lock of hair falls over her forehead when she hides her eyes behind her hand. Once she finally regains her composure, she tucks the disobedient strands behind her ear. Nix would’ve liked to do that--not that he _could_ have, but the thought is nice. Roses bloom in her cheeks and her lips are stained purple. Not that Nix is paying that much attention, but he is observant, he has to be, that’s his job, isn’t it? So it’s only natural that he would notice details.

Brushing her hair off her face would be too intimate a gesture in public, even though they’ve been wound around one another in private more than once. They never say a word about it later. It isn’t romantic, she gives him empathy and compassion without asking for anything else; he thinks of cradling her against his chest when she’s crying the same way. For the most part. Besides, that happened during the day, and that makes a difference. Come to think of it, they’ve gone to lunch and a few afternoon matinees, strolled and window-shopped and browsed--but always during daylight hours. They’re friends. But that also means it would be fine to go over there. Actually, it would be rude not to. Her feelings might be hurt if he doesn’t. It’s not as if he orchestrated the situation, it just happened. Nix sips at his drink, torn between watching Rissa from where he is or taking the empty chair next to her. A fresh glass appears in front of him.

She laughs again and that makes the decision. He leaves an absurdly long butt in the ashtray. The whiskey he takes along; it would go against his nature to abandon his drink. Nix weaves his way across the small room. His heart pounds in his ears. He has to be careful of his glass; his palms are getting slick. This is ridiculous, he’s a grown man for Christ’s sake.

Nix is a few feet from their table when he can finally make out what Rissa and her friend are saying. You’d have to strain to string together more than a few words if you were any farther away. This is good because Rissa’s friend is teaching her to swear in French, specifically, impolite names for a certain piece of the male anatomy.

Rissa looks up when Nix clears his throat. The smile that greets him is wide and tipsy. He made the right decision; she’s clearly happy to see him. She pulls the empty chair closer to hers and pats its seat, inviting him to sit down. Now that he’s here, he’s at ease again.

“Lew, this is my friend Lise,” Rissa chirps, “and Lise, this is Lewis. Nixon.”

“The third,” Nix adds.

“It is very nice to meet you, Lewis.” Lise extends her hand across the table. Nix doesn’t shake it, instead he brings it nearly to his mouth. He kisses her hand the proper way, so it’s not a kiss at all, his lips never touch her. Lise laughs at the over-the-top gesture, Rissa shakes her head, and Nix rolls his eyes, making fun of himself. Lise watches Rissa thrust an elbow into Nix’s side. He pushes her arm away, but he doesn’t let go. He reaches to fiddle with Rissa’s napkin for a few seconds, then he lays his hand on the table. Lise can’t tell if it’s touching Rissa’s arm, but if it isn’t, it has to be close enough for her to feel the heat rising from his skin. Color rises in their cheeks and Nix’s eyes flick to Rissa’s lips when she’s not looking. And Rissa reciprocates. Lise is of the opinion that Rissa herself doesn’t realize what is happening. And this boy likes Rissa as much as she likes him. Lise sees it before the introductions are over.

“The pleasure is mine,” Nix answers. Rissa giggles at his dead-pan delivery and he winks at her. She looks away, toying with the fine gold chain that disappears under the neckline of her dress. Her anxious fidgeting forces Nix to move his hand. He drapes his arm over the back of her chair instead, so that it’s only a millimeter or two from being around her.

“He has pretty manners, Rissy,” Lise stage-whispers behind her hand.

Nix thanks Lise at the same time Rissy agrees with her.

“Now, will one of you ladies please tell me what was so amusing?” he asks over his whiskey.

“No,” Rissy answers, wide-eyed. She’s afraid he heard what she said about _him_. She tries not to mention him too often lest anyone realize exactly how much she thinks about him. But she’d been drinking, and Lise is her best friend, so she started gushing, she couldn’t help herself. Lise’s good-natured teasing somehow turned into an impromptu and inappropriate French lesson. It’d be okay if he overheard _that_ ; he’d find it funny. He doesn’t need to know that her opinion of his ass is what led to it.

“You’re really not going to tell me?”

Rissy shakes her head. Lise stays quiet, observing the gestures and glances that quickly add up to more than the sum of their parts.

“That’s not very nice. Maybe I could use a laugh.”

“Maybe I’m not nice.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“I think Lewis is right.” Lise lays her hand over Rissy’s. “You are not mean at all.” She gulps the last of her wine and grins. “And look, my glass is empty. Will you both be so kind as to excuse me, _s’il vous plait_?” She shrugs and climbs down from her chair. She makes it look like a dance. As soon as she leaves, Nix turns to Rissy, scooting his chair even closer to hers.

He can’t think of anything to say that won’t sound ridiculous. “Hi.”

“Hi, Lew.” She props her chin on her elbow, leaning in a hair too close. Her wine has gone to her head.

“Rissy?”

“That’s what Lise calls me.”

“You have a nickname for your nickname.” He tips his glass to his lips and swallows in one practiced motion. “I like it.”

“I’m glad you approve. That’s what I ask myself about anything I do: will Lewis like it?” One corner of her mouth curls up and her eyes sparkle. Nix throws his head back and booms laughter.

“Well, smart-mouth, Lewis likes it. Tell me, what have you been up to tonight?”

“Lise is trying to help me improve my French. She’s teaching me dirty words.” She’s decided that he must not have heard her going on about him. Or his bottom. Thank God.

“Good friend.” He winks at her again just to see her cheeks color under the freckles. The smirk pulls at the left corner of his mouth.

“She is, you know. She’s the best.” Rissy’s voice is full of affection. “And you? What have you been doing with your Friday night?”

“Thought I’d get a drink. Find a pretty girl to talk to.” Nix lifts the glass and sets it back down. “I think I’ve succeeded on both fronts.”

Rissy shakes her head, but he can tell she’s pleased with the compliment. “Look at you. So smooth.”

“No, I’m telling the truth.”

Spending time with Rissy--the nickname suits her--puts him in a better mood. If teasing turns into harmless flirting, that’s all it can be, right? Rissy is a good girl, raised on wholesome, all-American values. She knows there’s a girl, he’s mentioned her in a vague way, not that he and Rissy talk about that kind of thing. There isn’t all that much to tell anyway; there’s been the one girl in Aldbourne and a few others along the way here. And Kathy. Even if he wasn’t seeing anyone here--no matter how casually--there would still be his wife. Rissy doesn’t know--at least he doesn’t think she does--that he’s married. He doesn’t wear his wedding band, so how would she? No, Rissy wouldn’t get involved with a man who had a girlfriend, or God forbid, a wife. He has to respect that. But her pretty mouth is made for kissing, and sometimes Nix entertains thoughts about the rest of her. What would happen if he moved closer, if he tipped Rissy’s chin up--? She might pull back in anger or surprise, or laugh at him, or be insulted, or worse, hurt. He doesn’t want her to compromise her values for his benefit. Yet, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t think about it.

A gust of chilly air comes through the door along with three or four young women. The one with honey-blonde hair cranes her neck to scan the room, searching for someone. Nix raises his eyes when the draft hits him; they meet her china blue ones right away. A frown crosses her face before she smiles and waves. Nix waves back with two fingers while his heart sinks.

He’d met Mattie his first weekend in Aldbourne, right here, as a matter of fact. Drinks led to dancing elsewhere and that led to…well, never mind. She’s not his girlfriend exactly, he’d been honest on that front from the start. He hasn’t spent any real time with her in the last few weeks. He can justify that--he’s had a lot to do--but you can justify anything. He and Mattie have a nice time when they go out, and occasionally they go to bed and have a nice enough time there. She’s agreeable, amiable, pleasant in a bland sort of way, and what’s between them has probably run its course.

Nix shifts in his chair, the seat suddenly seems very hard. He’s caught between three women, and one of them isn’t even on this side of the Atlantic. He and Kathy can hardly stand each other, he doesn’t care about Mattie enough, and he cares about Rissy too much. Lately he’s been feeling guilty on her behalf when he’s with Mattie or he comes across the thin sheaf of Kathy’s letters. He has to admit, if only to himself, he’d be jealous if Rissy had a boyfriend, and it would certainly be hard to like him, but he doesn’t want her to be alone, either. She seems to have sworn off love for the time being, so it’s not an issue. It won’t stay that way forever, and then…

This isn’t fair to any of them. Everyone wants to feel loved, and people generally like sex. Is it fair to ask anyone to go without either for months and months on end? Nix has always had a hard time denying himself; he’s not a bad person, he’s a man with needs. And to be fair, not all of them are physical. Wouldn’t Kathy be happier with a man she could be in the same room with for more than an hour? And wouldn’t it be kinder to let Mattie go now? But again, you can justify anything if you try hard enough.

Rissy’s brows knit together when she catches Mattie staring, but they smooth out so quickly that later Nix isn’t sure he didn’t imagine it. She plucks the glass from his hand and takes a sip, hiding a puckered smile behind its rim. She’s not always sweet and wholesome, sometimes she’s made of mischief, stubborn, wayward. He can tell her dirty jokes, and she’ll pretend to be appalled before dissolving into laughter. Or they can talk over any number of interesting and proper subjects over teacups. And once in a great while, he’ll put an arm around her and she’ll somehow end up practically in his lap, so there’s no space at all between their bodies. Or she’ll let him press his face to her chest--just above her breasts--and wrap her arms around his shoulders to keep him there. If that happens, she pushes the hair off his forehead or plays with the bristly ones at the nape of his neck. But only if things are particularly bad.

Nix jumps, pulled from his reverie by Mattie’s hesitant hand on his shoulder, her red fingernails bright and shiny against his drab wool. The possessive gesture bothers him and he stops himself from shaking her fingers off. He doesn’t want to hurt her. The smile on his face feels fake, all wrong, more like a grimace.

“Hello, Mattie.” It comes out overly polite.

“Hello, Lewis,” she coos at him, ignoring Rissy. This is self-preservation, she doesn’t have it in her to be mean. “Would you like to come join us?” The question is directed solely at Nix.

“This is my friend--”

“He’s my friend,” Rissy parrots. Her eyes are open a bit too wide, a caricature of innocence.

“This is Clarissa, Mattie. And Rissy, this is Mattie.”

Rissy puts her hand out and Mattie shakes it. Her nostrils flare despite Rissy’s disarming smile. Mattie arranges her face into a placid expression with obvious effort. Nix experiences an attack of conscience. None of this is Mattie’s fault, and she’s under no obligation to like Rissy. He knew Mattie didn’t love him, but he was beginning to suspect she might be on her way there. She is, and she has a right to be hurt no matter how clearly he stated his intentions.

“Well, you can come join me later, if you want.”

“I just might do that,” Nix replies affably. “In a little bit.”

“It’s nice to meet one of Lewis’s friends.” She offers Rissy a wan smile.

“Yes, it is,” Rissy agrees, struggling to find a middle ground between catty and kind, realizing that pity would rankle more than anything else.

Mattie looks as if she’s waiting for something but unsure if it will come or even what it is. Nix gives her a real smile and nods up at her. She falters and spins on her heel, putting a sway in her hips as she stalks back to her girlfriends.

Rissy shakes her head and steals the whiskey again. “She likes you.”

“I know.” Nix picks the glass up and realizes it’s all but empty. “She likes me more than I deserve.”

“Why? You’re likable.”

“Am I?” He sighs.

“Well, I like you.”

“Thanks.” He spins the empty glass on the tabletop and grins. “ _He’s my friend._ Are you drunk?”

“No!” She smacks his hand but then she rubs it, even though the slap was too light to sting.

“I don’t know. Methinks the lady doth protest too much.” He takes her wineglass and drinks it down to the dregs. Rissy wrinkles her nose at him. The glance holds too long. Nix hopes Rissy will blame his flushed face on the alcohol.

Lise never came back to the table, not that Rissy or Nix noticed. She’s at the bar with her own wineglass, oblivious to the man beside her. She peers into her bag, sifting through whatever she has inside, growing more frustrated when she can’t find her cigarettes. The soldier takes the opportunity to ask if he can give her one of his, and then he holds out his lighter for her. She smiles at him politely, chatting with him for a few minutes. The door opens again, and a few girls call out greetings to Lise, beckoning her to come sit with them. She lays an apologetic hand on the soldier’s sleeve before she trips lightly away. Rissy clucks at his forlorn expression with sympathy Nix finds endearing.

Her pinky and her ring finger rest on Nix’s hand. She leans toward him, almost succeeding to suppressing her grin. Nix has to fight the urge to dart in and kiss her. She’d probably slap him, and not playfully this time. She also might be drunk even though she said she wasn’t.

“Poor thing,” she sighs, looking at the man who is still gazing at Lise with longing.

“Oh, he’ll live.” Nix rubs his chin without thinking, and then he wishes he hadn’t moved his hand. He can still feel where her fingers had been.

“Everybody’s disappointed tonight.”

“I’m not. Are you?”

“No.”

Nix doesn’t know how to follow that. The silence isn’t exactly comfortable. He breaks it with a question he already knows the answer to, just to have something to say. “Now, tell me, who are they?”

“Nurses.” She points at a pale, slight girl with bright chestnut hair. She puts her lips almost to his ear. “See her? She threw up on her first day.” Rissy and Nix snicker, heads bowed together, coconspirators. Everything is back to normal.

Mattie is still staring at them, a line between her eyebrows, almost visibly seething and pining in turns.

“Poor girl, she’s getting upset.” Rissy pushes her bottom lip out. Nix imagines tracing its curve, first with his finger and then with his tongue. “You’re going to be in trouble, Lew.”

“Well, I’m willing to risk it. You and I are having fun, aren’t we?”

“Yes, but I feel sorry for her. And I don’t want to keep you all night.”

“Maybe I should go; it looks like she might spontaneously combust or something.” Nix is also afraid he might do something rash if he doesn’t get up soon.

It’s nice to have a friend who will listen to you, who will let you hold her because it does just as much for you as it does for her. That’s worth more than thirty minutes of fun. Although he’s pretty sure it would be a whole hell of a lot of fun.

Rissy pouts her wine-stained lips. God, he wants to kiss her. If he’d drunk anymore, he might’ve done it, damn everything else. Maybe she’d welcome the kiss. It’s a possibility. She might even kiss him back. Or she could get up and never talk to him again. She doesn’t want him to leave, but that doesn’t mean she wants to be man-handled at the table.

“Or I could stay here.” This is stupid.

“No, Lew, go on. You wanted to sit with a pretty girl tonight.”

“I’m already doing that.” There has to be a compromise between the less and the more--and Nix needs to figure out what he’s willing to give and what Clarissa’s willing to accept, if anything. He swallows and his heart speeds up. He covers her hand with his. “Alright, I’m going. But would you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“I need a really good meal. Something up to my pre-Army standards. Do you think you could have dinner with me tomorrow so I don’t have to eat alone?”

“I think I can manage that.”

“It’ll give you an excuse to get all dressed up.”

“And you’ll get some decent food.”

These two reasons aren’t reasons at all.

“We’ll have a late supper. I’ll come get you. Around eight? Will that be alright?”

“That’ll be fine, Lew.”

“Until tomorrow, then.” Nix goes to stand behind Mattie, leaning on her chair but not touching her. Rissy tries not to feel happy about that and fails. She stares out the window, absently sliding her empty wineglass in tiny circles.

“I am sorry,” Lise whispers as she returns to her seat.

“What for? He’s just a friend. I told you that.”

Lise lets it lie. The swearing lesson resumes. Nix stays near Mattie, drinking one whiskey after another, warm but distant. He leaves with a few of his own friends, almost pulled along by a short man drunker that he is. Nix grins at Rissy on his way out the door, waves at her through the window. Mattie stays for a while longer with a sour expression, disappointed that Nix didn’t bring her along wherever he went. Her girlfriends surround her, trying to soothe her injured feelings.

Not that Rissy’s watching.

* * *

There is exactly one place both near enough and nice enough to be suitable for a friendly dinner with a young lady, so that is where Nix takes Rissy. The single candles on each table throw shadows of water glasses and vases over crisp, snowy tablecloths. The flowers are slightly wilted and the waiters don’t wear dinner jackets, just white shirts and dark ties. But the lighting is soft and there is music since it’s Saturday. The chantuesie croons Bei Mir Bist du Schoën into her microphone, nice and slow.

Rissy orders comforting, familiar food; Nix’s choices are more exotic. He attempts to get her to try escargot but she refuses to even consider it. He pops them in his mouth and grins at her. She ravages the breadbasket.

“We used to make our own. When I was a little girl. And we churned ice-cream on the back porch.”

“Your childhood sounds idyllic.”

“Sometimes. Not always.” She takes a bite of her bread. “And you ate things like that? It doesn’t look like food.”

“You’ve no idea. But I also traveled all over. You should have seen Europe before the war. Gorgeous.”

“What was your favorite place?”

“Paris. They have all kinds of questionable-looking things to eat.”

Incidentally, the food here is better than Nix hoped it would be. Whoever’s in the kitchen tonight is talented; he might have left Paris or London to find himself here. The war has made for some strange bedfellows, first-rate chefs in unremarkable restaurants.

“You want dessert? We can share.” Her eyes light up. Nix flags their waiter, a kid who must still be in high school or whatever they call it here. He has the lanky look of a colt, as if he’s shot up a few inches and isn’t quite used to his height. When he produces a dessert menu, Nix pushes it across the table to Rissy. “You choose, so it won’t be anything that scares you. Whatever you want.”

“Anything I want?”

“Yeah. Go wild.”

She decides on chocolate cake. Nix orders coffee; he asks for two cups, but Rissy interrupts him and says she’d like cocoa instead.

The cake comes with a pair of forks. Rissy takes lady-like bites. Nix shoves a forkful in his mouth, crumbs tumble onto his shirt. Rissy chokes on a huff of laughter and then it’s her turn to get cake on herself. Then they’re both gone, trying ineffectually to stifle their amusement. When what is left on the plate is too big for one bite and too small for two, Nix spears it before Rissy can say anything. He pretends to eat the whole thing and feeds the last bit to her when she protests, feeding her from his fork. Why not, they’ve drunk from his flask, shared a cigarette before. This isn’t much different. Although, you can share a cigarette or pass a flask around with friends, but Nix can’t imagine feeding dessert to Dick, let alone off silverware he’d taken out of his own mouth.

“This is better than the first time you ate dinner with me, isn’t it?”

“That was the only other time we had dinner together.” She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t know, I was lucky enough to meet you. But you did spill on my poor shoe. And we didn’t have cake.”

“You like your dessert.”

“I’ve missed it.”

Is she still talking about cake? Is he?

Rissy plays with her necklace and Nix catches a glimpse of the wedding bands that hang from it.

“What happened to him?” He asks before he can stop himself. “You don’t have to answer me if you don’t want to.”

“No,” she starts, chasing the last of the cake crumbs with her fork. “Um, it was a traffic accident. Just an accident. A waste of a good man. He was, you know.”

“I’m sure he was.”

“You would have liked him.” Nix thinks this is debatable. She bites her lip and looks down at their cake plate, but not before Nix sees a tear threatening to fall. “Anyway, I didn’t know what to do with myself afterwards. I’ve never been so lonely. Nothing mattered. So I worked and I didn’t think of much else.” Rissy keeps her eyes trained on her fingers, toying with her fork.

“Is it any better now?”

“It’s better than it was.”

“That’s good, Rissy.” It’s Nix’s turn to avoid her eyes. He draws as much air into his lungs as he can, steadying himself. He brings his cigarette to his lips, watches the smoke waft upward with his exhale. “I don’t think my…wife…would be so broken up over me.”

“Oh, Lew, no.” She sounds incredulous. Nix wonders if it hasn’t occurred to her that not every couple is wildly in love, or if she can’t believe his wife isn’t wildly in love with him.

“And…my kid doesn’t know who I am.”

“Lew, that’s terrible.” She reaches across the space between them to place her hand on his.

“That’s the way it is.” Nix shrugs. “He was a baby. Who knows what they remember.”

“Do you have any pictures of him?”

“One from last spring. I’m sure he’s grown a lot by now. I probably wouldn’t recognize him either.”

“Won’t your wife send you new ones?”

“Kathy doesn’t write much,” he answers. “We’re married, but it’s more on paper than anything else.” Rissy’s fingers tighten around his. “It wasn’t like that for you, was it?”

“No.”

He’s almost holding her hand. Their fingers aren’t intertwined; her hand is folded around his, like you would hold hands if you were wearing mittens. Or if you were grasping someone about to drown. Nix reaches for her other one. Who knows whether he’s comforting her or she’s comforting him, or if it’s going both ways. It doesn’t matter. Nix wishes they were alone somewhere, so he could hold her right to his body--and this time he’s not thinking about anything untoward.

“I’m sorry.” He’s sorry about a lot of things. She shouldn’t feel badly on his account.

“Lew, I don’t think you understand how much you’ve helped me.” Rissy lets out a shaky breath.

The cake is gone so the plates and silverware have been cleared away; the coffee and chocolate are going cold. Rissy’s eyes flick from Nix’s down to his lap, and back up again. Her brows raise and she glances at their coffee cups and Nix understands. He produces his flask, tipping it into their tepid drinks. The tone of the evening has changed. There’s no more teasing. Instead, she asks questions and listens to his answers and he does the same. At first, they measure each other’s reactions, careful not to share too much too quickly. By the time the doctored drinks are gone, the conversation has veered to more personal topics and Rissy tells him all kinds of things. Nix finds himself replying in kind. There’s so much to say.

Actually, they haven’t run out of things to say since Nix spilled whiskey on her shoe. Every time he’s seen her since then, he’s felt the same spark of recognition he did the day they met. Rissy is always friendly and affectionate. He did kiss her once. It was that first evening, right at her hairline. Nothing came of it. She pulled back almost immediately and he hasn’t tried again since. On the other hand, she knew when he needed a goddamn hug more than anything else and she humored him. He got her to stop crying and smile. Their back-and-forth is fun and the stolen minutes in which he can either care for her or allow himself to be taken care of offer a relief he can’t find anywhere else.

Her interest and affection and friendship are genuine. She wants to know what he thinks and how he’s been doing, what bothers him and she wants to hear his stories and opinions and observations. It turns out there are things you can say to a girl that you can’t to a man, no matter how close you are and what you’ve gone through together. That human connection is precious; he doesn’t know what he’d do without it. Things are going to get a lot worse before they get better. There’s no need to worry about that tonight, not here with a belly full of good food and drink, listening to the singer croon along with the band.

One can still dance with a friend; it’s almost an expectation. It’s not Nix’s doing that the song is slow and that dancing to it will mean he has to put his arms around his partner.

“Shall we?”

“We shall.”

He guides her across the room with his hand on the small of her back. One of her hands goes to his shoulder, the other feels small and delicate-boned in his. Nix can’t tell if he’s smelling her shampoo or perfume; either way, he likes it. It’s the most natural thing in the world to pull her closer and hold her there. His hand stays just above the curve of her ass. He’s only mildly tempted to let it wander lower. He spins her out and she comes back to him neatly with a flourish.

“Where did you learn how to dance? You’re really good.” She is, too. He starts to show off a little. Rissy follows him without any difficulty at all. Dancing her around is a pleasure.

“Should I be insulted that you sound surprised?” She shakes her head at him. “My dad. Ever since I was little, he used to twirl me around. When I got older, he taught me real steps. You?”

“Oh, it was ingrained in me from a very young age. Dancing is an important social skill, you know.”

The conversation dies off, but not every silence needs to be filled. Nix briefly presses his lips to the crown of Rissy’s head. There’s nothing wrong with a little physical affection between friends. Whatever will happen will happen, and he’s content with that for the moment.

It gets late very quickly.

“I’ll have to take you home,” he murmurs in her ear. “So you don’t get the stink-eye tomorrow.”

He helps her on with her coat before shrugging into his. They take a few minutes with hats and gloves before they leave the music and lights behind. Out on the street, starshine illuminates everything except deep pockets of shadow. Their fingers catch every now and then as they walk. Nix regrets putting on the gloves. The dry, clean smell of dead leaves rises in the cold air as they shuffle along. Rissy takes his arm, tucking her hand in the crease of his elbow.

She stays against his side until they come to her gate. She reaches for his hand and leads him through it, around the back of the house. The day they met, he went up the front path with her, right to the door. The cold, drippy afternoon had turned into evening abruptly; it was almost dark by the time they were done saying good-night on the porch. That’s when he put his lips to her forehead. Rissy had disappeared inside before anything else could happen. He hasn’t been through the gate since then.

The back porch overlooks a garden. Naked branches stretch up against the sky, a birdbath glows in the gloom. Rose bushes hide under burlap. Not a single leaf dots the immaculate lawn. Winter cherry blooms and a few manicured shrubs still have greenery clinging to their limbs. The curtains twitch, one black eye and a sharp chin appear behind panes of glass.

“She has an iron fist. We’re supposed to be perfect. God help any girl she catches smoking inside.” Rissy ignores the bench and perches on the railing.

Nix can take a hint. He digs his cigarettes out of his pocket. The tiny flame from his lighter lends warmth to the cold light. He tries to make himself comfortable, leaning against the post and half-sitting on the rail. The wood is cold under his bottom; it digs into his thigh. Rissy holds their cigarette out of view. Her foot swings, kicking his leg.

“What would she do if she saw me?” He blows as much smoke as he can upwards.

“You’re a man, so nothing. You can only stay for a minute, though. No gentleman callers after 10pm.” One side of her mouth lifts. “It’s like being a little girl again. So many rules.”

“Then I should go. I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“I think that might be good for me every once in a while.”

“If you say so.”

No one could find an issue with their behavior. He and Rissy aren’t doing anything scandalous. They’re two adults sitting a respectable distance apart, outdoors, in full view of anyone bothering to watch, looking at the remains of the garden.

“Lew, will you tell me something?”

“What’s that?”

“Why do men do such insane things when they’re left to their own devices?”

“Like what?”

“Someone--I won’t tell you who--tore a muscle sliding on the floor in his socks.”

“Where?”

“Wherever he’s staying, I suppose.”

“On his body, silly girl, not his address.”

“His groin,” she says with wide eyes. Nix laughs and Rissy shushes him. The curtain twitches again.

“I’ll tell you why, but it’s a secret. Don’t tell anyone. Are you ready?” She nods and Nix leans in to whisper. “We never grow up.”

“Does anyone?” Her voice trails off. “I suppose we need to play when we can.”

“That’s part of it, too.” They pass the cigarette back and forth, and before long, there is almost nothing left of it. Nix slides his hand along the railing towards hers until the tip of his index finger touches the tip of hers, the only point of contact. She holds her arms out, only an inch or two from her sides, and Nix takes that hint, too. Rissy’s arms go around his waist and Nix folds his around her. They stay that way, not moving or talking. Nix can feel Rissy breathing; he can see his own breath. A tap on the glass startles them both.

Rissy tells him good-night, she never says good-bye, so he doesn’t either. Nix makes it down one step before he turns around. Rissy hasn’t moved. They’re almost the same height since he’s a step below her. Nix hardly has to bend down at all to brush her cheek with his lips. She returns the kiss. He’d have a lipstick mark, if her lipstick hadn’t worn away. He strokes the line of her jaw with his thumb. Rissy’s lashes start to lower, her breaths quicken and Nix’s come almost as fast. The porch light snaps on, obnoxious in its brightness. Nix straightens up and Rissy shuffles her feet.

“I had a good time, Rissy. We’ll have to do it again.”

“I’d like that.” She gives his shoulder a light shove but her smile is warm.

He has no idea how much she wanted the kiss she almost got; she doesn’t know how much he wanted to give it to her.

Nix walks home whistling, hands in his pockets. He wishes he hadn’t agreed to dinner with Mattie next weekend. He decides not to think about that, instead he looks up at the night sky. The wind has picked up and the temperature has fallen, but Nix hardly feels it.


End file.
